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Thunder I invited thunder willingly to my boat. It had been a long dry summer, And the boat needed some gentle rocking. Even the waves complained of boredom, Coming and going effortlessly, Mildly touching the skin of it. The thunder came strong. The boat turned its womb into the sea, Like a flower closing on, early in maturation of the light-- A darkness it accepts rather than one it fears, For the sea is a better trusted friend. The thunder came strong. Indifferent to the awaited spring To the long hated summer, The thunder came strong; hungry and empty. And left even more Hungry. #Unreal #Poetry #JessicaMalo #ToureWeave #Nature #Imagery #Thunder #Emotions #EbbandFlow #Depth Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Clam Beard No More You said you loved me, lover, but you needed one thing to change. So I said, let me be your changeling, a changeling for love. You said you wanted to taste me, so I said feast, feast on. But you said all you could taste was my lady garden. The bush between my legs blossomed in the dark, longer and longer into a robust pubic Rapunzel. I felt my cheeks blush and my muscles harden. And how do my black curls taste? I asked. A chorus of crickets swept the bedroom. Crows hatched. Crows flew. Crows died. The moon cycled through her phases. Finally, your voice, thunderous, a boom: I want to taste your clam, your sweet jam. But I like your cock with hair./I prefer you with none there. You expect me to go bare?/Be my changeling for love. The flood of justification washed over my brain: He had changed for me—but those were habits, nuisance character traits, flaws destined for change. Not the way the stars had dreamt him into nature. Still. Be a changeling for love. Trim. Shave. Wax. Poof. Now my pussy cries red rain because the salon is a butcher. This form of torture hails from the formerly beautiful Brazil. 'Formerly' because Brazil is no longer beautiful in my mind. I, sans bearded clam, am no longer beautiful in my mind. Once I quivered with delight; today I shiver in disgust. I am a girl-child so naked that clothes cannot clothe me. Kneel before my bleeding altar because I changed for love. #Unreal #Sex #BrazilianWax #NoPubicHair #WaxingDownThere #BodyImage #BeautyIdeals #WhatIsBeautiful #Love Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Playground We embrace now, beneath orange midnight pollution. Our concrete shadows have merged, as we anchor between convoluted plastic. To you I am a plaything? Lounging among swings and slides. Pressed for warmth and spread for appeal. But if that’s true, What am I doing here? Basking in your silence as an excuse for my own? I sulk with you, your pretty play thing, skinny in tights, Velcro shoes, your baby doll blue. Until this place seems familiar. Branches of entities unknown, cover the sky in a loose knit, melding into flighty ideals. Sex. Love. Maybe comfort? Last time I was here, I did not know of these. Nor do I now. Breaking plastic ties, I jump down and flee your mold, I swing. #Unreal #Poetry #Photography #EleniKanakis #TylerRosado #Caged #ToxicRomance Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Devil Wears Suspenders Words + Image: Courtney Barron QuailBellMagazine.com The devil wears suspenders He wants to be my friend. A voice like knives beckoning, He wants to play pretend The devil wears suspenders And he has a wonky eye. He tells me its okay now To kiss the world goodbye. The devil wears suspenders Standing close beside me. He reaches out with needle hands And finds the soul inside me. The devil wears suspenders He's taken now with anger. Because in my soul is only love, And evil stays a stranger. #Unreal #Poetry #CourtneyBarron #Devil #Imagery #Love #DontHate #Appreciate Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Multi-Talent 2Ties Down the Rabbit Hole. Photography was like a gateway drug into the creative side of my mind. I first got into photography when I was doing T-shirt screen printing. Somewhere in that process, I found that I enjoyed photography much more than screen printing. Something Borrowed into Something New. My photo alias is 2Ties, which comes from Ty-Ty, the nickname that my little sister gave me when she was first learning to talk. When I took up photography, I just took pictures. I didn't know the technical side of it. I couldn't even name a well-known photographer. I didn't even own my own camera. My step-dad let me borrow one of his older cameras, and a handful of lenses that he never used. He was into wedding and portrait photography. He was the only photographer I knew. I remember him explaining to me how to use a DSLR. It was like a foreign language. There were too many settings. I just wanted to put it in "take a picture" mode and roll with it.
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Leyla's LamentMama, how do you make the pain go? Do I wear my veil and tuck my tears in for sweet dreams? Mama, do I cover my skin? Will the thick, black cloak hug my scars the way you hug me? Mama, do I sit behind latticed windows? Are those lacy shadows just whispers of your lullabies? And, Mama, will my scars shine? Shine like the sun through my window, where wind parades past the bars and twirls my eyelashes into a curtsy? Wait, Mama, what about my eyes? Will they crystalize when tears flow? Like gems in a dark cave? Will they still shine? #Unreal #Poetry #DenizZeynep #Veiled #Feminism #Caged #Scars #MamaDaughter #Womanhood Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Queen of the World I wonder what it’s like to be queen of the world; To straddle your reality and dreams, And see no disparity, For wherever your starstruck stare ventures, Every tree is evergreen. The wind embraces your every movement. Rainfall, the joyous tears of gods, That descend from the sky to fall upon your crown, And waves only crash to derange millions of granular crystals, Into piles of perfect constellations, Created in your image. After all, You are the muse that makes oceans roll over and sigh. I wonder what it’s like to hold the universe inside of a crystal ball, and marvel at it in all its rose-tinted wonder, As you feel it marveling back at you; To never tremble, For there are always plenty of love letters, Always plenty of offerings, Always plenty, Always there, To keep your palace alight, Your temple, forever warm, Forever peopled with thrones and reverent masses. No one would ever go to heaven, Because heaven is where you’ve always lived, And your crown is your eternal halo. I wonder what it’d be like if we only died to donate their bodies to needy soil White lilies would ascend from blemishless bodies. Neither would decay or be victimized by time, For it was refundable (with interest), And if we chose death, We died in love and stayed there, Until death lost its luster and we came back from holiday, Only to discover the expected: no one had ever mourned us, And grief only happens in nightmares that never existed In the end, we would live happily ever after. Only the most royal highness can make me the queen of the world. #Poetry #RoyalHighness #QueenOfTheWorld #ThisIsNotALoveSong #Heaven #Paradise #Utopia #Dreams #LivingTheDream Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
The Spring Leaf Tea House In the tea house, tea cups are suspended in the air like frozen raindrops. As you walk in, you will be overwhelmed by the aroma of jasmine that wafts in the air. You will try to wave it away, or cover your face, but eventually you will stop. You will let your arms hang limp at your sides. The smell will enter you and you will forget why you are here and how you got there. Tables with lavender cloths clutter around the room, and when you walk past, you will notice shadowy figures sitting at each table. An old woman with yellowed eyes sits at a table, vacantly staring into her empty teacup. You will say hello but a gentle tug at your elbow takes you to a table with a lily poking out from its vase.
When you are at your seat, you will forget that you only wanted to peek in through the front window. You will forget the woman with dark hair at the door who spoke to you in soft whispers, imploring you to come in. A waitress will pluck a delicate pink tea cup from above your head and place it in front of you. The jasmine will burn your eyes and tears will form. The waitress with emerald eyes will brush a tear trailing down your cheek, then place a menu into your hands. You will order the amaretto tea and bread pudding, and after the menu is taken away, you will hear the voices. An invisible man’s voice will whisper “good morning”. Your body will relax, like a loose string. You will breathe in deeper, a small sigh escaping your lips. You will see visions of white sand, the back of a man as he walks into the waves; somewhere in the distance, a sailboat bobs in the sunset. In your dream, you will walk towards the man and place your lips between his shoulder blades; he will smell of cut summer grass and pine wood, and there will be a scar on his left shoulder: a perfect circle. You are in his arms but also hungrily eating the bread pudding. You will not notice the burns on your tongue as the hot tea slides down your throat. You will only feel the ocean breeze lick your body as you sit up in the sand. You will not know that you are dreaming of your honeymoon. You will only vaguely recognize your husband. You will not remember he is dead. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Remember When Remember when-- It was good at the beginning It was random as heck It was quirky But then-- I watched-- You killed it I took one for the team It was scary It’s silent now. Outcast-- You know what I’m talking about, What happened? I want to capture the moment You kept laughing, Over and over and over again. I haven’t had one of those moments in a long time. Can I have one again? #Unreal #Poetry #NaomiYung #Photography #Infatuation #Playful #InTheMoment Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. The Breadcrumbs widget will appear here on the published site.
Washington Quail Bell(e)Editor's Note: This poem was originally written in response to the image on the cover of The Washington Post's Fall 2014 Arts Preview print supplement. This image is not available online. In a Congo of rain, she walks, firm and pink-faced Through a district which wants to claim her As a work of art, a source for the cool, The next designation the capital wants to adorn itself. She resists by not refusing to pose or declining To color in the blue and gray spaces Of this city locked in a civil war of peace, Where struggle is strangled before every election. If another takes her picture, she gives it no mind, Her yellow tights and orange skirt remain. No camera can take their color away, Nor the pattern of snowflakes on her denim jacket. Her main controversy? The puddles in the potholes, They will wash away the petals on her shoes, Observers with their observations will come and go, And if one writes a poem about her, she will never know. #Unreal #Poetry #BenjaminNardolilli #NeelyJohnson #Individual #Photography #History #WashingtonDC #WaPo Visit our shop and subscribe. Sponsor us. Submit and become a contributor. Like us on Facebook and follow us on Twitter. |